hearts like supernovas
by quorra laraex
Summary: And he was right. Her pants looked better on his floor. — Lucas/Maya, college roommates AU
1. you're an ocean and i'm drowning

_a/n: yup! a college au. going to consist of drabbles and prompts (that you can request) that will be placed in this setting. hope you enjoy!

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**i. you're an ocean and i'm drowning  
**She just wants her Chinese takeout and he just wants a bed. It's all about compromise... and goddamn are her legs distracting.**  
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Honestly, when Maya had scrambled off her (so, _so very_) comfortable mattress of a bed—because _hey_, who needed a bed frame anyway; it was useless and it was _money_—enthusiastic for the knock on her door, she had thought it was that Chinese food delivery guy that came to her place almost weekly. She _had _ordered some fried rice and a few egg rolls about forty minutes before. She _hadn't_ been expecting that one kid from that one class (that she's never even spoken a word to, for the matter) to be standing outside with a suitcase in one hand, a duffel in the other, and a messenger bag slung over a broad shoulder.

He hadn't had the chance to look her in the eye yet, since he had dropped his duffel and had his hand shuffle into his pocket to pull out her roommate ad from the local paper. He fiddles with the ends to soothe the sheet out before he initiates conversation, "So uh—says here you're looking for a person to help pay your rent?"

And then his eyes flicker to her oceanic gaze and he notices this familiar flicker of annoyance before he takes the time to notice her blonde mess of waves that she subconsciously rakes her fingers through to pull away from her face. It's the exact moment he remembers. Well, she _had_ sat a couple seats in front of him, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't notice every time her fingers combed through her hair just as she had done at this very moment. She does it so easily, and he had (almost) thought about what it'd be like to run his own hands through the tresses. He dismisses the thought as soon as it comes to him.

"Hey, yeah, I know you," she says in nonchalance, eyes squinting as if she was trying to recall his name.

He jams the ripped newspaper advertisement back into his pocket before politely initiating a hand shake, "Lucas. Lucas Friar. We have intro to statistics together."

She looks at his exposed palm and slightly-fidgeting fingers before looking back up at him, skeptically and without a budge. One of her brow dips and she looks at him in suspicion. She watches as he uneasily moves his rejected hand to the back of his neck. He didn't even know her name, but she had the frightening power to make him nervous.

"When I submitted my ad, I was kind of expecting people of the same sex," she says honestly. He thinks she might be testing him. "And it's eleven P.M."

"And?"

"How do I know that you won't sexually assault me three minutes after I let you walk through this door?" She is only eighty-three percent serious. "Tell me that, Cowboy."

"Is my accent that strong?"

"No," she answers, looking bored and leaning against the frame of her door. "I can see the cowboy hat sticking out of your bag."

Not only does she have the ability to make him ridiculously nervous, but she also has the power to make him feel dumb. Well, fuck. And then she kind of does this thing with her leg, like she's stretching it out behind her and this is the part where he notices that they're miles long and completely _bare_ under this over-sized sweater she happens to be wearing.

"The fact that you haven't answered my question and how you're currently ogling my legs isn't doing you justice," she snidely comments, a hint of a smirk trying to pry its way to her lips. "Might have to sleep on the street tonight."

He feels the heat burning on the tip of his ears now—because _goddammit_, now she's getting him flustered; what _can't_ she do? He really fucking hopes she doesn't notice the way he stutters since he's making it an internal rule to never give this girl (this _stranger_—or hopefully soon to be roommate; only because he needed a place _now_) the benefit of the doubt. "Look, Blondie—"

"Maya Hart," she corrects with her snarky demeanor. She looks somewhat entertained.

"Maya," he repeats. "Maya Hart…"

And then it clicks.

"Maya Hart! You're good friends with Farkle Minkus, right?"

The mention of one of her best friends is enough for her eyes to widen and her head to snap up.

"Ask him about me. Anything. I swear he'll be my voucher," Lucas reassures. "We're family friends. I've known the kid for years on end."

She wonders why Farkle had never mentioned this friend, but then realized that this friend had certain striking attributes that made him exceed most girls' (not counting her, of course) image of handsome. And Farkle _had_ claimed to be in love with her for over a decade. Gathering her thoughts together, she tells him to wait a minute before shutting the door in his face to grab her phone and make a call.

When she gets her friend's two thumbs up, she sighs—a mixture admittedly being of relief and exasperation. _Now_ she had to share her space—and with a boy, too. She decides quickly that she won't care to be self-conscious in front of him. Not that she needed to impress him. He was a fucking _cowboy_ in her city. She takes a breath and rolls her eyes before opening the door once again and walking away after barely making eye contact.

"Thank you so much," he comments genuinely, bringing in his luggage while eyeing her retreating form. She doesn't care to make a tour, and he doesn't mind. "Been needing to get out of those dorm rooms, stat."

"Yeah, yeah," she replies half-heartedly while pulling long locks into a careless bun on top of her head. She turns her head slightly before continuing down the small corridor to her bedroom to meet curious azure eyes. "Your entrance fee's coming, by the way."

And she disappears, footsteps light along the carpet and leaving him in confusion.

He only understands when he opens the apartment door to Chinese take-out, and he is forced to pull out his wallet.

**tbc.**


	2. count your blessings

_a/n: so yes to answer some of your questions, this will be a series of college one shots. the overall summary of this fic will continue to change by chapter.

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**ii. count your blessings  
**Awkward moments were inevitable. Especially since she was attractive. Not that he'd tell her that, though.

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He had only needed a place to stay; somewhere he could crash whenever he couldn't elsewhere, somewhere homely and comforting and neat. He had also thought it would have been easy, since adjusting had always been easy for him—he _had_ moved at least six times in his life with his family. However, living with the Hart girl was much different than he thought it would be with her spontaneous showers and her mess of apparel and her countless cosmetics (not that she wore a lot, if she even did at all); and _wait_, let's not forget the fact that she's a _girl_. A snarky and manipulative and condescending girl, at that. Awkward moments were _inevitable_.

(and endless)

Especially since she was attractive.

Not that he'd tell her that, though.

(and especially since they were both attracted to each other)

Not that they'd tell each other that, either.

Not that they'd talked at all, for the most part.

/

The only times they really see each other is when she gets back from her shift (wherever she works, he'd been meaning to ask her) some time past eleven and she'll usually spare a glance in his direction in the living room before heading toward her room to sleep. Sometimes she'll take a night shower because she'll feel _that_ disgusting by the end of the day, even when she had taken one in the morning. But most times, she doesn't even have the energy to say a simple "hey".

They don't even sit near each other in class, if she shows up, that is. And it isn't as if he isn't friendly or social. He's just _intimidated_. And it isn't as if she isn't friendly or social, but—well actually, she kinda wasn't. Or maybe she just hadn't been interested in being friends. Maybe it was just strictly business; sharing space, rent.

Lucas thinks that maybe since he'd be staying for who-knows-how-long, that _one_ of them could at least try to break the surfaced tension of their atmosphere. How could two people live together and not even _try_ to form some sort of bond?

It starts when he offers to do her laundry. (curse the manners his mother had forced upon him during his younger years) It's the least he could do, wash her clothes – she gave him a home, for Christ's sake. Maya looks at him with questioning eyes that makes him uneasy as he stands a step inside her room—crossing the boundary of her own haven. He watches as she steps off her mattress in only a long hoodie and picks up clothes from around her room. She places the assortment into his hand with a semi-happy look before giving a genuine, "Thanks."

"No problem," he replies, legs striding across the doorframe as he pulls the door closer to its lock.

"Lucas?"

He freezes in his tracks. "Yeah?"

"Better not steal anything."

He can't even see her, but he can _feel_ that smile that reeked of superiority when he looks at how the majority of the apparel in his hand are undergarments.

"Very funny," he responds before having the door click shut behind him.

/

And then there was that time she had caught him blasting country music as she had unlocked the front door after having left work early.

She looks about ready to gag, shooting him a stink eye as she drops her keys, books, and bags onto the dining table. This is _not _what she had signed up for when she'd submitted her ad in the paper. Having a boy living with her was one thing, but a boy that had this unconditional love for country music?

He has got to be _kidding_.

The only thing that saves her the gag-fest is the mouth watering aroma of tomato sauce roaming the air of the kitchenette to her right. He's wearing this stained apron and a small smile, his absent humming along coming to a stop. He speaks over her blaring iPod, asking her if she cares for some spaghetti.

"I'd be yelling at you right now for that trash," she points to the device that's playing the stupid genre before twirling a fork in her meat covered noodles. "But I guess I'll hold off on that."

Unaffected by her dislike and appreciative of the way she stuffs her face with his food, he doesn't hesitate to join her with a bowl of his own.

He thinks it's funny when he walks by the bathroom door the next morning to her daily sunrise shower, and she's singing along to the same Luke Bryan song he'd been playing (that she claimed to despise). Then Maya's dressed up in leggings and a crimson scarf messily bunched over layers of her blonde waves, tugging on some black ankle boots when he passes by her with a towel over his shoulder on his way to his shower. And tables are turned right before he shuts the bathroom door.

"You've got a lovely voice," Lucas singsongs, and she has nothing to say in return when she hears the water turn on—and _dammit_, she's already ten minutes late.

/

And of course there had been time where one of them had walked in on them while they were _naked_. That was bound to happen and they both knew it.

It was her fault. She already knew problems like this would happen when he had first moved in. If only she had at least tried to prevent any of them from happening. And in her defense, she was exhausted. She had no knowledge of her surroundings. She hadn't even remembered she had a roommate.

(she recalls almost screaming at the sight of a boy in nothing but a towel in her bathroom)

She had skipped her lit class, having overslept and lacking motivation to do anything that day since her head was pounding and her nose was stuffy and _fuck_, if this was a fever coming on, she was going to kill herself because finals were next week and now is _not_ the time for her stupid immune system to be breaking down on her.

Maya figures that it'd be a bad idea to shower that morning, instead probably relaxing in a bath—the ones with the cucumbers over her eyes and with The XX being the only sound echoing along the bathroom walls. It'll be her serenity. The thought is more than appealing as she groggily rubs at her eyes, pushing the door open to be welcomed by post-shower steam and a post-shower boy with glistening pecs and shoulder blades and a fucking chest that would put Harley Keiner (in his golden days, of course) to shame.

It's hard to adjust her vision in the fog and in this heat and _god_—when even was the last time she had fucked somebody anyway?

She releases that thought as soon as it entered her already clouded mind, and as soon as everything registers, she knows she won't be able to tolerate that smug look on his face for her staring (just a tad too long) so she avoids any eye contact before abruptly turning around and shutting the door whilst muttering senseless _sorry's_.

The brunette hears her curse under her breath before trudging back into her room to throw herself face first onto her bed. She tells herself that it's the fever coming along that had caused the amount of heat in her cheeks.

And as time goes on, he realizes she isn't _as_ intimidating as she appears to be. She's not that bad. Not really.

**tbc.**

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_a/n: reason for the lateish update is because i havent been too inspired to continue, especially since the show doesnt come back for a few months. also im a senior and im super stressed over school and college and applications and just everything and you dont care so ill stop rambling about irrelevant topics now

more will comeeeeeeee


	3. as if we're bound to

_a/n:thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews, you guys motivate me so much wow cries

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**iii. as if we're bound to  
**Flirt? With Lucas Texan Horse Riding Prettyboy Friar? _As if_.

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You know those times where you're so goddamn flustered and out of breath and your cheeks are burning and your chest is pounding and you just want to kill that person with that smug smile who is purposefully making you feel this way for their own entertainment?

Yeah.

They dealt with a lot of that.

But at least they had always taken turns with whoever had the upperhand, since they had both come to learn how to get under each other's skin. It was only for the sake of entertainment, though. Nothing more, nothing less—'cause it's not like they _liked_ each other or anything.

Of course not.

/

"Maya Hart," the brunette nineteen year old begins, pushing long locks behind her shoulder before resting her chin onto clutched hands, all serious tone and incredulous eyes. "So you're telling me you've been living with this supposedly cute boy for a month and you guys haven't done the deed yet? Let alone, _kiss_?"

The blonde teen nods her head while flipping through her sketchbook with one hand and taking a sip of her mocha with the other. She doesn't give her best friend her full attention until her tone seems like she's about ready to flip the table and _nope_—Maya was not ready to stain her pleated pearl white skirt.

"_What_?"

"What?"

"I don't know if I should be proud or if I should be disappointed," Riley states, her green straw held between the teeth on the side of her mouth. She sips at her caramel frappe, all sugary and sweet, just like her.

Maya eyes the girl seated in front of her and rolls her eyes. Of all people to hear this kind of bullshit from, it _had_ to be (used-to-be-prude) Riley Matthews. Maya expects to hear these kinds of things from her mom—if she still spoke to her mom that is. She could already imagine the _what does he look like_ shifting into _he looks like __**that**_morphing into _honey, what have you been doing with your time_ _if you haven't been doing him?_ and the thoughts are enough to begin the first signal of a migraine.

"Really, Riley?" Maya asks, brow arched as she looks at her leather watch. They had barely spent an hour and a half together (after having been months since they'd last seen each other. They blame college and distance and life.) and Riley had already managed to annoy her. Just in the slightest. It's nothing she can't manage, though, since she's known and loved this girl all her life. But _god_, when Riley has ideas implanted in her head, they stay _encaged_ in there, too and letting go had never been her forte. Never.

"Wh_aaa_t?" Riley whines, victim-like and laced with pretend oblivion. "I'm only curious and I'm worried about the well-being of my best friend."

Maya groans, but she brushes it off.

"Please tell me you guys are, _at least_, friends?"

Friends.

It's a trigger word.

Maya hadn't really had the time to give out labels here and there or even think about where she stood with others around her, that including her roommate.

Roommate.

Another label. That's what she'd been used to, with labels and all. That's as far as it went. She barely even calls him by his first name. (which happens to be his official label of a human being, marked and written and assigned to his figure and proven by a birth certificate—she needs it written on his forehead in order for her to remember sometimes) She usually just refers to him as "Roomie" or "Cowboy" and it isn't as if he minds, so she doesn't care.

But there are times when she isn't ignorant to the fact that he's still a human being under her roof. These are rare times, when they aren't playing that stupid, condescending chess match of a game. These are times she calls him Lucas and he calls her Maya and they're usually sitting together, whether they be on the couch or at the dining table or on the kitchen counter or when he's holding her hair back in the bathroom. These are times they open up about their lives, little by little, at the brim of dawn or at the stroke of midnight. They are times that (when she has the time to reflect upon) she likes to deem him as more than a roommate or a classmate or an acquaintance. He is a friend.

"Yeah," Maya nods after small reflection. "I guess we are."

And Riley's smiling like there's no tomorrow and of course she pushes further on. "And you guys flirt?"

Flirt? With Lucas Texan Horse riding Prettyboy Friar?

_As if_.

She wonders when the brunette had started hard drugs. Totally didn't suit her—not one bit, with all these delirious accusations and assumptions and her ridiculous desire to—

"I just asked a question…" she laughs, licking whipped cream off the end of her straw. "No need for such a harsh look. But by the skills I inherited from a lawyer, I can tell by this hesitation that something's up. Are you not telling me something, Maya?"

—bug the hell out of her.

She manages to, at least, shut her up by offering to treat her to a chocolate chip muffin and a movie date. Riley had been completely reluctant for the offer. She missed her city, her family, her home, and most importantly, her best friend.

She doesn't tell Riley about those drunk nights and adventures at four A.M. and that stupid, humorous confrontation involving sexual orientation, and that one time she and Lucas argued whether or not oral even _counted_—she knows better. It will only lead to trouble.

(aka Riley's rambling, lecturing, and fortune-telling)

And even when the subject seems to have been dropped hours later when they're seated in the cinema waiting for _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ to start, Riley doesn't fail to humor her.

.

.

.

"It's bound to happen, you know."

"Shut up already."

**tbc.**

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_a/n: keep in mind all the memories maya lowkey reflects on in this, because they'll all be made into one shots in upcoming chapters ;)  
also, irrelevant fun fact: i was listening to bound 2 by kanye when i wrote this hence the title haha


	4. i'm here

_a/n: so sorry for the lateish update. been busy on my lucaya blog with the prompts being given to be there! you should check those drabbles out if you want :) and if you have any prompt requests for this specific college fic i'd be down to write those, too

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**iv. i'm here  
**And you're still beautiful.

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She is all restless limbs along the leather sofa, hair up and tangled, and reading glasses drooping at the very end of her nose. There's something strangely appealing about the sight of her with the way her head hangs off the edge and one of her thigh high socks (since she only wears sweaters or sweatshirts or long sleeves and it's nearing _winter_, for Christ's sake—_don't you get cold_?, he remembers asking her and she had only looked at him funny in response, as if she'd been implying that he'd be aroused by her bare legs or something completely preposterous—but yes, she actually _was_ shivering, so she needed to cover her legs somehow—long socks becoming the new addition to her daily attire) drooping below her knee.

This is how he finds her when he comes home just before midnight, having worked for four hours straight on a group presentation the following day. He absolutely hated group projects and he was just a bit too reluctant when his group member had actually worked on multiple slides with him. This was a fucking final that _needed_ to be aced.

Speaking of finals, he assumes his roommate had been studying, the unorganized patterns of multicolored papers practically avalanched beside her along with highlighters and two textbooks making it obviously apparent. After double locking the door and placing a box of leftover pizza onto the counter, he starts for his bedroom before taking another glance at her, considering whether or not to leave her there.

It's not as if she hadn't spent the night on the couch before, he thinks. He brushes the thought off when he's already past the door frame of his bedroom and had thrown his jacket on top of his desk. He contemplates the times he had woken up on the couch during late high school days and having to have rushed to class in the morning. Those times were _dreadful_—he'd been moody and practically snapped at each and every driver and classmate near him. And of course, looking out for how this will affect him in the near future, after changing into flannel pajama pants, he finds himself walking back to see the way she'd been frozen in place. He most definitely did not need her snapping at him the following day, and she would probably want to wake up in a more comfortable environment, rather than this pigsty of a work place.

It's just a win-win for the both of them; that's all.

"Maya," Lucas mutters, observing how not even a single lash or twitch of the lips take place. He repeats her name, a bit louder and a tad longer, stretching the first vowel lazily. She's not the only exhausted one here. He watches as the fingers of her outstretched arm beside her ear curls at his voice and he stares a bit too long at them.

He's just kind of intrigued at how her fingers are moving and curling and grasping as she's knocked out entirely. It's as if she's trying to grab something and the sight is amusing. Her breathing is light and he bets if he picked her up to place her in bed, she'd be even lighter. He contemplates picking her up, he does, but decides not to.

Instead, he lightly taps her (curling, uncurling) fingers with his and watches as she subconsciously interacts with the feel of hands that aren't hers. And Maya does something somewhat overwhelming—she _holds_ his, as if the space between her fingers had been waiting for his to fill the gaps. It's sweet and she's asleep and he'd be lying to himself if he claimed he hadn't flushed afterward.

Then she fidgets and rolls onto her back, letting go of his hand and slowly opening her eyes to see him looking down at her and she (almost) slaps him since she's caught off guard.

"Do you always watch me when I sleep?" she throws her specs off and rubs her eyes, still in a daze.

"In my defense, I was trying to wake you up so you wouldn't have to stress out in the morning," Lucas corrects.

"You know what?" Maya stands up next to him and stretches, mid-yawn, yet still playful. "I'm too tired to argue with you. So I'll just let it slide."

She dances her way toward their kitchenette before grabbing a slice of cold pepperoni pizza (unhealthy to the absolute max—his mom would most likely scold him for bringing a box into his house) before making her way down the corridor without a look back.

/

He vaguely remembers the time he and Maya had exchanged phone numbers. It must have happened within the first week of his stay—somewhere between the awkward arranging of bathroom schedules and the making of grocery lists and collection of bills needing to be split evenly, he had probably slipped his digits into her cell phone and vice versa. Only for emergency purposes, they'd agreed. Like if there was a fire, or a robbery, or a murder (she suggested) and that one made him question the safety of the very city they lived in. She had laughed, he thinks. He remembers the sound of it when it happened, and she'd only been trying to psych him out. (which worked)

Anyways, it isn't as if they'd been the type to call each other every now and then, let alone text message—so he's a little thrown off when his phone's vibrating with its coexisting echo of a ringtone with her name on the front at four A.M.

He thinks that she might be butt-dialing him… in her _sleep_? He, honestly, hadn't even known she wasn't at home. This must be (at least semi) serious. Curious and voice raspy, he answers, barely. "Hello?"

Either he's too sleepy for his own good or she'd been babbling even before he'd picked up the phone because she's somewhere in between long sentences that he's having trouble threading together for some sense.

"—out here since, _for like_, god knows _how_ long—maybe an hour? Maybe twenty minutes? _Five_?" Her voice is syrupy and nonsensical. "But just—ugh—_please_ just answer already."

"Where are you?" Lucas asks, registering her mental state at this moment. It's probably because it's four in the morning that he hadn't exactly remembered where she had mentioned she was going to go that night several hours prior to this call. He thinks it might be a party. Probably. With the way she's babbling idiotically.

"Gone, I'm _gone_," she answers and she proceeds to laugh. At this point he's already seated himself up and is pulling on the first shirt he can find. It's a white v-neck that should be in the laundry but he'd forgotten to add it to the pile. Oh, well. He balances his phone between the side of his face and his shoulder as he forces some shoes on and scrambles out of his room.

"I'm aware you're gone," Lucas states, searching for wherever he had left his keys. "You're mentally and emotionally gone. But _physically_, where are you?"

"I am mentally and emotionally and physically locked out," she slurs and he catches the twinge of sadness in her voice before his hit of realization. He unlocks the door of their apartment and sees her sitting outside, right between the door of the staircase and the elevator. When the light of their apartment is exposed into the dim floor as he flings the door open and she catches sight of his silhouette, she hangs up her phone and talks into the space between them. "Forgot m'keys."

He sighs at the sight of her—this frail, pale, pastel blonde in layers of clothing and a heated face that reeked of tequila and raspberries. She looks like she's either going to laugh or cry (the damned hysterical girl) and he also isn't sure if he should question her of her previous, drunken statement. He decides not to. Instead, he takes a seat beside her, leaving their door open for them to both eye as their backs lean against the light blue apartment wall.

The alcohol on her breath is strong the next time she utters a word. He doesn't know when or how it starts, but when it happens, he does what he can.

Maya cries.

She's vulnerable, weak, and drained to her core—the alcohol at the point of stripping her bare in front of him and igniting the waterworks she would have saved for her pillow if she had arrived back only an hour earlier. She is sobbing into her knees, bunched up and held against her chest, and the sound of her sobbing makes his throat go dry.

The brunette snakes his arm around her and tightens, watching as her head falls onto his shoulder for support. He's not going to ask why she's so sad, or whether or not she's been sad and for how long—he's probably never going to ask her such questions, and the likeliness of her remembering tonight is as low as his probability of interrogating her. He thinks it may have to do with the number of inexplicable paintings she has around the corners of her room and the stash of cigarettes he'd found under the couch when he'd been in search for the TV remote.

She's shaking as she sobs, and a short while after, when she stops, she sort of giggles over how smudged her makeup must be when she wipes at her tears with the ends of her sleeves. And since there's nothing to lose and this girl needed some real cheering up, he tells her some truth he's kept about how she's one of the prettiest things he'd ever laid his eyes upon. It's not like she'll remember, he hopes.

The curls of her hair tickle his chin when she leans upright and he coolly stands up, his eyes cloudy against hers. He's already losing sleep because of her. Lucas lends his hand out to help her stand, to which she grabs warily. After having pulled her up and leading her way inside before double locking their door, he's surprised to see that she doesn't release her grip on his palm and instead pulls him into the hallway near their bedrooms.

She only lets go when he demands she down a glass of water before going to bed and she sees the anxious, worry-filled strain in his eyes beside the tiredness of his voice. She acquiesces, deeming it useless to argue hours away from dawn. She still can't walk straight and she guarantees that she's going to wake up still intoxicated. Knowing she's going to have to ask him to buy her some painkillers later, she tip toes real quick in order to really capture the look in his eyes in the sullen quarter they'd been standing in.

"Thanks," she breathes before slowly stepping into her chamber.

"Sleep well," his voice is hushed and her door is now closed, but he knows she heard him fine.

**tbc.**


	5. here's to heads, heels, and falling

_a/n: OK SO CAUTION. this gets inappropriate. like very. aka i'm switching the rating to M. you've been warned lol  
(i'm sorry if smut makes you uncomfortable and if it does, maybe you should only read half of this? the second half is it. it's not a lot, but i mean. it's a good amount of smut.)

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**v. here's to heads, heels, and falling**  
And he was right. Her pants looked better on his floor.

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It's not like she's a prude or anything. Really.

She just never considered herself a sexual creature, especially in the abode of her own apartment complex. When all parts of her home add up—the banal walls of simple tones, the mixture of wooden and carpeted floors, the floral vintage couches, the pure blanch bathroom setting; she could only conclude that there is an extreme lack of sex appeal—_all_ plain with no hidden stashes or tabs of porn on her laptop or dirty DVDs, no spunky colors to splash any part of the rooms, or lonely toys for that lonely soul.

This is only in the beginning though.

This is when she'd been a liberal arts major, she'd have ramen nightly, and drown her aching drunk body in a winter bath after having to sneak back in through her fire escape because she'd forgotten her key on her countertop. This is before sporadic pizza deliveries and spontaneous AM runs to the local mini mart to pick up milk for her cinnamon toast crunch. This is before having someone that was willing to take the subway and walk three blocks to the diner she worked at past midnight to accompany her home because she had a nasty feeling about that man with the glasses who kept staring at her through the transparent doors. This is before Lucas Friar.

It's Friday morning.

She usually sleeps in since they both don't have class, but since she'd crashed around nine the night before, she let herself step out of her room in the early hours of the morning. Because hey, why not?

It's 10:07 AM and her fingers are clenching and unclenching at the hem of her sweater when she opens the door of her refrigerator and prays to every god out there (despite the fact she's a goddamn atheist) to help her keep her eyes off his bare, tanned, toned (glistening—his body is fucking _glistening_) back. He's at the stove making pancakes, broad and lined and not facing her. And _fuck_, she really needs to start waking up earlier.

And she's staring. Boy, is she staring.

"Do we need to make another juice run?"

He doesn't turn, and proceeds to flip a round of chocolate chip batter. She blinks, ruby red in the face. Right. She'd forgotten she'd kept the fridge wide open when she'd been meaning to pull out the carton of orange juice she tends to drink after dragging herself out of bed. She'd _totally_ forgotten—hadn't even _noticed _the cool atmosphere enveloping her since heated, dirty, embarrassing thoughts had colored her mind.

"Oh—uh—no," the blonde internally scolds herself for stammering. "The chill was refreshing."

"Hot, isn't it?" And this is when he glances over at her, handing her a plate.

"What?" She really hopes she's not as scarlet as she feels.

"The weather?" and he flashes her a smile in clarification—that knowing kind of smile, the one that's slightly smug and shows just the right amount of teeth; the one that screams something between _I can see through you_ and _I'm a complete tool_.

Right. Goddamn she hates feeling like the virgin school girl.

It's 10:11 AM and she can't help but lose herself in scenarios of him pushing her up against her walls, of her pushing him down on the floor where the carpet meets the wood, of how comfortable the couch would be if he were to go rough on her, and of ridding the essence of purity with the sounds she can make in her bath tub. Man, the fact she can see the definitions of his abs when she takes the plate from him throws her off the edge, hungry for more than just breakfast.

"The landlord really needs to get his shit together and fix the A.C.," Maya states, reluctant to change the subject. That is until she's spraying whipped cream into her mouth. She tries her absolute best to keep her head from spiraling at the thought, keeping her eyes on her food and thinking twice before letting her pupils wander.

"Agreed," she hears him say opening the freezer. "We're outta ice cream. Let's get something cold tonight?"

_Anything_ to keep her cool. "I'm down for Slurpees."

/

They end up getting way too much to load around even when the nearest Seven Eleven had been approximately a block and a half away. They're each carrying two paper bags filled with unnecessary necessities, she calls them, along with their shaved ice beverages.

The staircase is daunting, but for some odd reason she chooses it over the elevator, using the excuse of having a television show to watch at a certain time and she'd been impatient waiting for the doors to open. He knows something's up, though; just can't name it. She'd been acting strange the entire day. She barely even watched TV—_such_ bullshit.

He's pulled out of his train of thought when he notices how short her skirt is as she's skipping along the steps in front of him. No matter her speed, his stride is enough for him to be right behind her after every tread up the stairs. He fixates his gaze upon the back of her body, from the waist she reveals during the rare occasions she wears cropped tops (and he recalls the indents of her hip bones—_wow_) to the ass that's swaying side to side with every level, skirt flouncing up and down unbeknownst to her (and he tries to ignore the fact he'd caught a glimpse of red panties—he _tries_ to be a gentleman, looks at his feet after being flashed in silence, but really; his thoughts are running haywire) and her fucking legs. Always bare, always miles long, always looking velvety smooth.

It's 9:54 PM and he can't help but dream about them being wrapped around the bottom of his torso with his hands holding her ass up against the wall and his—

Maya comes to a halt on the second to last step, quickly looking back at him with an alarmed look. She'd asked something about chocolate fudge that he'd barely heard in the background and he's taken aback at her sudden stop, accidentally ramming into her slightly before flushing red and automatically moving the paper bags to the front of his body to hide an uncomfortable bulge that had made contact with her side.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"I've got the chocolate," he answers a little too quickly.

Her eyes squint at him in that confused king of way, ignoring his answer because at this point, it's the last thing on her mind.

Fuck.

Without shrugging or any further commentary, the Hart turns back on her heel and makes it to their door.

/

Her lips are cherry red from her Slurpee and they are both fully clothed for reasons they both decide not to explain to each other—basically their attempts to prevent awkwardness from spurring. It is approximately ninety-three degrees and Maya Hart, for the first time, is wearing pajama pants and Lucas can't help but think (in a matter-of-factly way) that it has to do with him.

_Great. Now she thinks you're probably one of those perverted roommates. The ones that secretly obsess and masturbate to her shower sighs and fuck it all she's probably going to kick you out by the end of the night. (even if you did pay for over half of her snack picks)_ _You screwed yourself over, say hello to New York streets._

So what that he'd gotten hard? He can't help it—really. He hadn't gotten any action since his first girlfriend in his later high school years and Maya Hart is stunningly hot. He can't _not_ fantasize. It's not like he'd ever advanced on her or _thought _of advancing on her. Maybe he flirted here and there, but that's the end of it. They were friends, capital _f_. There's a ninety-nine percent chance she'd gotten freaked out, he decides.

Dammit.

/

She doesn't mention it.

How _would_ someone address something like that, anyway?

She wonders what Lucas had been thinking about—whether it'd been a double x film or something NC-17 or maybe, possibly, her? She shakes her head at the last part, instantly dropping that option in order to rid of unnecessary hopes and whirlwind her mind places where it shouldn't heighten. She knows exactly how bustling her brain gets at these thoughts that'd been inescapable today.

The blonde continues to stare off into oblivion, vision misplaced as her roommate flips through the channels beside her, whose senses are growing more aware of the close proximity of their bodies. She's squirming subconsciously at the uncomfortable feeling of her inner thighs in these goddamn pants and these goddamn thoughts.

"Maya, you _do_ realize it's over ninety degrees, right?" he breaks their silence.

She quirks a brow condescendingly in his direction and replies, "Yes."

"Aren't you hot?"

"Aren't _you_?"

The Friar boy mutters something incomprehensible under his breath as he pivots his gaze toward the blaring television. And since she's got a temper, especially if it has to do with him giving her cheek, she's quick to speak up.

"Excuse me?" She deems it easier to be angered with him than feel the need to fuck him senseless.

"I'm _very_ hot, actually. So_ pardon me_, ma'am," he snaps, because he deems it easier to be annoyed by her than feel the need to kiss her senseless. He stands up and steps over where her legs are resting on the coffee table in order to make his way to their kitchen.

"I have a name," Maya grumbles, getting off her ass as well and starting to shuffle to get to the fridge before him. A glass of water is what she needs to quench her thirst. That's all. Really.

"Says the one who calls me some form of Cowboy weekly," he sees the game she's playing as soon as she's trying to make her way in front of him to cut him off at the slight platform of the cold kitchen floor. He doesn't give her the satisfaction with the use of the speed and agility he'd been able to strengthen during sports. Lucas steadily opens the fridge to eye the pitcher and just as he's about to grab it, she bumps his hip with hers, and grabs the iced cold water before him.

"Get your own drink," and Maya knows she's being childish. This is how she masks it, how she keeps cheeks from tinting rose and prevents herself from stammering. If she keeps this up and he continues to become frustrated with her, he'll disappear into his bedroom and she won't have to deal with him—with _this_.

But since Lucas doesn't give up without a fight, he's quick to steal the pitcher right back and trail sturdily out of the kitchen, down the hallway, and into his room—distinctly emphasizing the boundary of the off-limit zone. They'd discussed the importance of boundaries, and if one or the other were to enter the other's chambers without permission, they owed the other whatever they pleased. He smirks at her from inner depth of his room as she flips him off. He proceeds to drink straight from the pitcher, and that's when she goes ballistic because its ninety-three degrees and _she_ had filled that shit up.

"Give it to me," she mutters sourly. She's actually too irritated that she doesn't notice how teasing her words had been. Feeling mischievous and lacking the sense to give a damn, she steps foot into his quarters attempting to reach for the water he'd been holding in the air above his head. After fruitless tip-toeing and stupid hopping attempts, (and he—still snickering at her tiny body trying the impossible) she comes up with an idea.

Maya leans toward him, only sort of, leaving enough space for a veil of heat to conjure in between them as she slowly begins to run her fingers down his chest and quieting the sound of her voice.

"I know you want to give it to me," her voice is sweet, _sweet_ venom—tempting, intoxicating, addicting.

He gulps. This is not how things were supposed to go.

She slides two fingers down the pattern of his abs, only the thin layer of his v-neck preventing skin to skin contact. The smirk slowly fades from his face and onto hers. She's got him around her finger. She dares herself to move a finger lower, watching the way his elbows buckle, lowering the pitcher to her reach. Once its in her grip and the bottom is in her hands, they both make a yank at it.

And of course, (because of puberty, genetics, testosterone) he pulls it harder, and the two toppling onto his bed is inevitable at this point. The water ends up splashing on the both of them and he drops it somewhere on the carpet. They're wet and she's hurdled on _top_ of him.

It's 11:42 PM and he's breathing in the scent of her flavored lips and she feels him pushing against her thigh and sighs. There's way too many heated thoughts unraveling the parts of their mind they try their best to keep hidden that they stay in place, unable to move with a locked gaze and parallel pants connected to the rhythm of that beating in their chests.

"A little breathless there, aren't 'cha?"

"You know," he starts smugly. He'd always been good at playing her little games. "I think I'd be able to get my normal dose of oxygen if you weren't on top of me, crushing my poor diaphragm."

"Sucks for your diaphragm," she smiles, resting her chin on her hands which are now embedded at the very top of his chest. Her lips are teasing and her eyes are tempting. And when she pushes her groin against his hard shaft, he throws his head back further into his bed, his eyes shutting and his lips parting in sensation. When he manages to tilt his chin forward to meet her eyes, she closes the gap of his mouth with hers.

She tastes like cherries and vanilla and _fuck_, he knows he'll never be able to get enough.

The Hart bites his bottom lip and steals the throaty sigh that comes from his lungs with another kiss afterward, before sitting up and continuing to straddle him. She throws blonde tendrils behind her ears before feeling the dampness of his shirt. In the dim luminescence of his desk lamp, every line of his chest is visible through the transparent white of the fabric and her pupils dilate. As she pulls his shirt up, he moves his hands on top of her to stop him.

"Ladies first," he murmurs smoothly. "You look gorgeous and all, but I'm pretty sure your pants would look much better on my floor."

"Only because I owe you for coming into your bedroom," she acquiesces, before taking a quick look around his walls and remarking with a shit-eating grin, "—which is pretty mediocre. I wouldn't have ever pinned you as a Texan Ranger if I were to judge your persona based off your room."

"Shut up," he says, leaning up to bruise her neck.

"Make me."

There's a flicker of lust in her eyes that he catches and she's offering him another challenge that he's willing to accept. He'll always be willing to play. He places his hands on her hips and forces a switch in position so he's on top, switching it up and catching her off guard at the sudden change. And like he'd planned, she's momentarily silenced as he pulls her pants down her heaven-sent legs and flings them behind him, already long forgotten.

Maya watches as his eyes descend lower, pupils still on her as he lets his fingers crawl up the inner of her thighs and play with the lace of her panties. And knowing Maya from the months he's lived with her, he could already tell she wouldn't be a fan of child's play, so he swiftly pulls the garment down, slowly, steadily, and teasingly before throwing the backs of her legs over his broad, dampened shoulders, hooking her to him while his tongue toys with her clit.

He wants to capture the sound that erupts from her bitten lips, but he settles on simply being able to make them, being the _cause_ of such whimpering desperation, continuing to suck on her folds before pushing a finger in and her gasp is even better than what he'd dreamed it to sound like.

After a round of vibrant sensations and heavy panting, (and when had her shirt come off?) she roughly pushes him against the headboard and doesn't hesitate to pull off his pants and boxers. She eyes the prize, and flickers her eyes to his vulnerable, desperate, pleading stare—keeping their gaze locked as she licks his shaft up. The groan that bursts with every down of his cock brims her skin with goosebumps. She spits his fluids onto him before continuing to bob her head down, and he adores the way her eyes never leave his. She swirls her tongue and kisses the wet tip, and he decides she's going to be the death of him. When she moves onto using her hands, her talented, nifty fingers curled around him and moving at brilliant speed, her name slips out of his lips.

He unclasps her bra, moving his lips across erected tits and molding his calloused hands wherever he can get a yelp out of her.

Before he climaxes, he pushes her down onto his bed, watching her vixen eyes that screamed for his full entrance, flare and twinkle wildly. She watches him shuffle on a condom from his night stand drawer and her kitten smile does wonders to his body. She fists one of her hands into his chestnut hair while another claws at his back when he thrusts into her tight walls. At the quickening of his pace, her toes curl and she moans so load that he kisses her to absorb the noise and moisture the dryness that had taken over her tongue.

It's 1:09 AM and she reaches her orgasm only fifteen seconds before him, her delightful moans igniting his climactic vein of pleasure before he bursts.

/

She wakes up to him fiddling with strands of her hair.

The morning glow of the sun beams through cracks of his window and brightens the lodging that had once been her guest room, a place of banal walls and carpeted floors, a place she had never even thought of having sex in before Lucas Friar.

She turns to face him then, admiring the way sunlight pours onto a mélange of his exposed body parts. The two exchange quiet good mornings and soft smiles.

"Lucas Friar, Thirst Quencher," he states, pleased with himself. He continues to tease, "Ladies call me Gatorade."

She sighs, defeated that she'd been the first one to have melted in the others' hands by a mere fifteen seconds. "Shut up."

"Make me," he mimics.

It's 9:13 AM when she drags him out of bed behind her and his lips have become bitten, bruised, and marked hers. And he was right. Her pants looked better on his floor.


End file.
